


Unspoken

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: In Mick's humble opinion, Len's inability to speak doesn't make him any less of a goddamn chatterbox. 
But maybe it's just Mick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Write a fic where Len is mute and communicates primarily through his cold gun and glaring Mick speaks fluent "Len"

This time, it was Mick that left.

Mick never understood those times Len had ditched him, eyes glistening like leaving was breaking his heart but he was doing it anyway; he'd always figured the flaw was within himself. Too crazy, too unstable, too in love with fire, not enough in love with Len, _not good enough_. 

Now he knows why Len keeps leaving, and it's got nothing to do with Mick at all, because this time Mick's the one who's leaving, and it's not Len's fault at all.

It's Mick, it's all Mick, because he can't stand to see what he's done another second. 

Len hasn't been small since they first met, when the bony little kid opened eyes and mouth and that gigantic personality of his crawled out, but he sure looks small now, skin swathed in bandages and ointment, swamped in the monotonous off-white of the hospital, chest rising and falling with the help of a tube and a dozen monitors. 

It's Mick's fault. 

He lost control. 

God, he always knew it would happen one day, that the flames would surround him and fill his mind and heart so much that nothing was left over. He always thought that that day would be his end, a glorious submission to the flames, a fitting pyre for someone who lived his life a slave to fire's blazing heat. He'd hoped Len would mourn him well but not too long.

He'd never thought about being the one mourning. 

Fire consumes Mick's soul and it seems intent on taking everything else he loves with it. He talks avidly sometimes of flames showing you who you really are, peeling away all the layers; it scares the rubes. Sometimes he even believes it.

He never wanted it for Len, though, whatever curses he may have said while angry and upset by being left behind. The same curses Len will aim against him when he sees Mick's note, when he realizes Mick left him alone in that hospital, even though Mick knows how Len hates hospitals. Hates being alone. 

But Mick can't stand to see what he's done.

The job in Shreveport was supposed to be easy, but it went so wrong - and it was Len who paid the price, abandoning the take to run back into a flaming building in search of his partner, screaming Mick's name, until the flaming building collapsed on top of him.

Mick got superficial burns over his arms and shoulders, nothing too bad given what he's dealt with before, problematic only in their extensive scope, but he was well enough to break out of his ambulance before the day was done. 

Len - wasn't so lucky.

They say he has extensive third degree burns all over, that beautiful skin crisping under the heat. They say that the falling roof broke his bones, that he inhaled too much smoke and ash, that he might never wake up. They say that the falling bricks smashed his throat and collarbone. They say that while there's no way to tell now, the lack of oxygen could have starved that beautiful brain of his to a living death.

His fault. His fault. _His fault_.

He uses fake IDs to transfer Len to a high-end hospital clinic that specializes in burn victims, and he gives them a lot of money to be willing to pretend they don't know Len's name or to mention Mick was ever there. They're not in Central or Keystone, so there's a chance that they don't actually know who they are, but Mick's not taking any chances. Not anymore. Not with Len.

Not again.

He leaves his phone number with the nurse and leaves.

He throws away the phone it's attached to seven times, only to dig it back up. He calls Lisa only once, but he breaks down about halfway through and she hangs up in self-defense. Snarts never could stand anyone displaying open feelings around them, preferring subtler forms of affection.

Len never had to say anything for Mick to know, and Len was a goddamn motor-mouth about everything else. It was in the way he always called Mick his partner, the way he stood up for Mick against the world.

It was in the newspaper he left on the table, dated May 18, 2004, with a Boston bank's advertisement circled in red underneath all the headlines about gay marriage getting made legal, weighed down with a ring and an unspoken question. 

Mick said yes, for better or for worse, for heist and marriage both, but now he's leaving - he's left - because otherwise the guilt would drive him to take a gun to his own skull and that's the one thing Len made him promise he wouldn't ever do.

He gets updates from the nurse sometimes.

He doesn't read them.

He keeps that phone anyway, paying for the service as the unread text messages keep piling up.

Two years go by, two years of guilt and self-hatred, two years of losing himself to the pleasures of unthinking violence and taking orders from others instead of thinking for himself. Drinking too much, eating too much, fighting too much. 

Then he gets a message from Len's old number.

A motel in Keystone.

A date.

A time.

Mick goes, shaking like a leaf, unsure of what he'll find. Lisa, come to tell him that Len's gone forever? Len himself, back and whole and angry at his abandonment? Len broken, paralyzed, brain-damaged, unable to think and blaming Mick? 

Mick finds Len in that awful old parka he always favored, sitting on the bed and watching some news show about a superhero-supervillain battle.

Mick comes in, sits in the armchair, watches with him. Len's the supervillain, of course, against some type of speedster; the media has dubbed him Captain Cold based on some banter the Flash had been tossing around. Len's weapon is a gun that freezes all it touches. 

Just Len's style, always keeping it cool.

The Kandhaq Dynasty Diamond is sitting on the desk. Len'll have a buyer for it already, no doubt, but it's big and shiny and gorgeous, and Mick would normally be impressed but he's too busy being wound up tight, waiting for Len's verdict. He grabbed a pack of matches downstairs, his oldest habit, but he doesn't dare pull them out. 

When the news program is over, Len flicks the TV off. Gets up. Goes to grab a box sitting next to the diamond that Mick barely noticed, and puts it on the table next to Mick. Opens it.

Mick blinks at it.

It's a science fiction style gun, just like the one Len was wielding on the television, but red and bulging with fuel packs and lighting mechanisms. Mick might not be intimately familiar with this technology in specific, but he has a fine-tuned sense of what things that light other things on fire look like. This gun is designed to heat things up, using some kind of infrared wave: a heatwave that can act as a flamethrower or as a blowtorch or to burn things that Mick's never been able to burn before. If the capacities are anything like what Len's cold gun can do, it'll be beautiful beyond anything he's ever seen before.

"What's this for?" he asks.

Len points at him.

"For me, yeah, but..."

Len nods at the television, then pats his own gun, strapped now to his thigh.

"You want me to join your supervillain crew?" Mick asks, almost lightheaded with shock.

Len wants him back. Despite all Mick's done to him, Len _wants him back_.

Len gently pushes the box towards Mick.

Folds his hands together, the way he always does when –

"No," Mick says, abruptly horrified. "No, Len, you don't have to apologize; it was my fault, it was me. Of course I'll join your crew. I'll always join up with you. But this - don't apologize to me for this, Lenny, please, god, don't. I couldn't bear it."

Len seems honestly confused. Mick's gone off script, that’s not how this goes. Usually, Mick does something wrong, Len ditches him, Len returns bearing gifts and unspoken apologies and a grandiose plan designed to lure Mick back, even though Mick would've agreed to rob a candy store if that's what it took to get Len at his side again.

But he can't let Len apologize this time. It wasn’t his fault. It was Mick’s.

"I should've watched the fire better," Mick says miserably. "Shouldn't have lost control."

Len shrugs, crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I _know_ you're the boss and it was your plan," Mick says impatiently. Lenny never could let another guy get a word in when it came to a guilt-fest. "But it was my screw-up, Len, not yours. This time it was me."

Len frowns at him.

"I didn't know if you'd want to see me!" Mick exclaims defensively. "I know I should've come to see you, gifts and all, if it was my bad, but I screwed up _so_ bad, Len, it was so bad - and you were in that hospital - and they said - they told me that – they said you’d –"

Len puts a hand on Mick's shoulder, the gentle contact unexpected after two years of solitude and roughness, and Mick has to put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

"Fuck," he says into his fingers. He didn't mean to break down like this; didn't mean to burden Len like this. Snarts hate emotions. "You sure you still want me on your crew?"

Len sniffs condescendingly.

Mick chuckles weakly. "Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. I should trust you to make your own decisions about crew staffing and if you want me, I'm insulting your judgment by questioning it. No need to give me the spiel; I already have it memorized. I'm in, boss. I'm in."

He looks up just in time to see Len's lips curl up into an honestly delighted smile, which he of course tries to hide.

Mick reaches out and weaves their fingers together, an old gesture for when they're alone. As he does, Len's parka sleeve rides up, just a little, and Mick can see the faint beginnings of twisted burn scars running up his arm.

"How bad was it?" he asks, almost shyly. He's always found burn scars to be unbearably attractive – totally _hot_ , pun intended. Len's body has always been covered in marks, but Mick’s favorites were always the shiny cigarette burns or the remains of Len's battles against his eternal enemies, General Oven and Commander Stove. God, Len’s such a bad cook. He’s probably been living off of hospital food for the last two years. 

Len gently untangles himself and reaches for his bag, pulling out a folder, which he gives to Mick.

Medical records.

Mick shudders, but the sight of Len sitting there, eyes as sharp as ever, already planning his next crazy stunt, gives him strength.

He opens it. Broken bones in his arms and legs and ribs, serious bruising, burns. Skin grafts for the last, but there's only so much they can do, and Len refused any cosmetic surgery. Damage to the lungs, meaning that Mick needs to keep an eye to make sure Len doesn't run too long - more getaway cars, fewer getaway sprints. No intellectual impairment, thank god, and also the hospital nurse thinks Len might have genius IQ, which surprises Mick absolutely not at all. Cracked collarbone, crushed larynx –

"Hey, Lenny," Mick says, still reading. "This says you can't talk or something. What's that about?"

Len gives him a sardonic look. Mick doesn't even need to look up to confirm it; Len's given him that same look a million times over, the little shift backwards in his seat, the way the bed springs groan as he twists to pin Mick with his stare.

"What?"

Len arches his eyebrows.

Mick thinks back over their conversation. He's not sure what Len's getting at with his stupid sarcasm, of _course_ Mick's been paying attention, he always pays attention when Len –

...oh.

"Wait, you can't talk at _all_?" Mick says, alarmed. 

Len shrugs. Then pauses and starts to lift a finger.

"No, I'm not counting 'assorted sounds', you _ass_ ," Mick replies immediately, because fuck, Len's such a nerd. Thirty years together; Mick should’ve known better than to give him that sort of opening line. "Seriously?"

Len smirks.

"Yeah, yeah," Mick says. "But seriously, how're you gonna deal with that?"

Len leans back a little, all casual-like, and nods at Mick.

"Well of course _I_ don't have any trouble understanding you," Mick says impatiently. "I barely ever listened to you when you _did_ speak. But what about everyone else?"

Len nods at Mick a second time, meaningfully.

"What do you mean, it's _my job now_? I can't talk to people!"

A stare.

"Well, yeah, I mean, I guess _technically_ I can. Okay. Taking my foot out of my mouth now, starting again. You can't honestly expect me to be the mouth from now on."

Len shrugs.

Mick pauses, because Len has a point with his little fatalistic "what else can we do" shrug. And since all this crap is his fault, being forced to do something he's not too fond of seems like a good penance. Especially since it means he'd have no choice but to be by Len's side to do it.

"I'm in," he says again. "Okay. I'll do it."

Len smiles. Then the smile turns wicked.

"I am _not_ saying your puns for you!"

Len pouts.

"Quit while you're ahead," Mick says firmly. 

Len grins and gets up to pack up his stuff. Mick watches him. God, Len's so beautiful: graceful still, back strong. He would've done every PT exercise the clinic could think of and added everything he remembered from previous injuries. Len doesn’t take injuries lightly. 

When Len leans down to pick up a box, his parka hood slides back, revealing more of the burn scars same as on his arm.

The medical records estimated maybe a third of his body was covered in them. 

Mick swallows, mouth suddenly dry and pants suddenly and inappropriately tight. "Lenny," he says, his voice dropped an octave, low and scratchy like it gets when he's hot for someone. Hot for Len. 

Len looks up and tilts his head questioningly. 

"How far _exactly_ do those burns go?" Mick asks hopefully.

Len gets up, comes over, and - pats Mick's arm.

Mick doesn't need Len to speak to hear "Quit while you're ahead" loud and clear.

Oh, well. Mick'll wear him down.

He always does.

\----------------------------------------

“How would you like to die, Flash?” Mick sneers. “The flame, or the frost?”

Len glows in silent approval next to him. He always was a drama queen.

Though Mick’s still gonna get back at him for _punching_ Mick out of his fire-induced fixation when they were fighting the cops earlier. Was that really necessary? Really?

Len laughs silently as he aims his cold gun against the Flash.

And Len says Mick never shows him a good time anymore. For shame.

Mick idly hopes that they were able to find where they left the girl. The explosion, should it happen, won’t be anywhere near her – Mick’s still a fan of burning, but it seems a bit much for someone who’s really just being used as attention-bait – but it’ll make a lovely sight.

The explosion that ensues when they cross their guns’ streams is less lovely.

Well, no, still lovely. Mick’d appreciate it more if the ringing in his ears would ever stop.

Len, who has the pain tolerance of a goddamn mule, crawls towards his gun, but the Flash is there first – not surprising, given that he _is_ a speedster.

Len sighs in annoyance.

Not too much annoyance. Len told Mick at the start that this game would involve losing sometimes, grinning like a loon; if they could beat the Flash on the first round, TKO, what's even the point of being supervillains?

Then the police come, and Mick snarls and tries to fight, because that’s his way with the pigs – he’d rather be thought totally crazy but dangerous than be pitied and sent to their social workers – and they’re being given the whole walk of shame straight through the CCPD.

“Partner’s a real hothead,” Joe West says to Len. Mick doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because he’s playing up the crazy.

Len _does_ roll his eyes. 

“Got nothing to say for yourself, Snart?” West taunts. “Looks like we got you, at long last.”

Len arches his eyebrows and tilts his head sardonically to the side.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

“Congrats,” Mick grunts. “You got us. Now stop harassing my partner.”

“From what I remember, your _partner_ never used to have any trouble speaking for himself,” West shoots back.

“My _partner_ ,” Mick growls, “is _mute_ , you ablest asshole. Later life onset; crushed voice box. You pigs can expect to hear from our lawyers.”

“Mute?!” some kid yelps. 

Mick glances at him – CSI, judging by the badge he’s wearing – and bares his teeth. “You gotta problem with that?”

The kid takes a step back. “Uh, no. Just – I didn’t realize – um –”

Len smirks.

“Yeah, fun fact: the Flash likes to beat up disabled people,” Mick says, translating. Len always did like to stir up shit.

“He does _not_ …I mean…” the CSI stutters.

“Just – get them out of here,” West says, looking uncomfortable. Len has effectively burst their little bubble of intense gloating; it’s actually quite a lot of fun.

Lisa breaks them out less than twenty minutes later – Len texted her, apparently – but Mick does call up the guy who reps them once in a blue moon and has him send a threat to file a discrimination lawsuit for failing to adequately give Len the opportunity to access resources necessary to navigate the police booking system. The ADA is cited at length.

He likes to think he can hear West caterwauling about it from the next city over. 

\-------------------------------

"We're not footing it anywhere," Mick says, translating Len's glare with the ease of experience.

He opts not to translate the nerdish fangasm that crosses Len's face when the space-time ship appears, because some things are self-evident. He does enjoy it, though.

Hell, he's still not sure this is a great idea, but whatever. Len's a crazy bastard and Mick's going to be there at his side, no matter what. 

Besides, maybe it’s not the worst idea to leave town. Mr. Barry Allen was pissed as fuck that they threated Cisco’s brother for their guns and for Allen’s name, though he was still super awkward about the fact that Mick did the translating for Len – the kid was ridiculously earnest about trying to make sure Len felt he was included in the conversation, including bringing a pen and paper to the _deserted forest location he kidnapped them to_ , what the hell even – and he’d been a bit more vicious after the fiasco with the black hole, the new set of metas, and then there was always Len’s _very_ unfortunate little spot of murdering his dad. Even though even Allen had to admit that one was justified. 

Mick doesn’t know why Allen’s so bitchy about it; they came all the way back to town to warn him about the Trickster and Mardon, didn’t they? They're even now.

Still. Mick’d prefer Len not be stuck in the same town as a twitchy speedster. 

As they go on board, Len grins at Mick then goes off to make friends, which for him means ostentatiously staring at White Canary's ass until she tells him off. They'll be best friends in no time.

Turns out time travel is even worse than flying cargo, though. _Ugh_.

Then they get ditched, of course, and the stupid TV is playing nothing but shit Mick's seen before. One downside of being stuck in the past.

"Why does this stupid station play nothing but reruns?" he asks, earning an eyeroll from the black kid but a knowing grin from Len.

"Am I the only one on this ship who could use a drink?" White Canary - Sara - asks. 

One visit to the bar later, and Mick decides he loves the 70s.

"You want to dance, Leonard?" Sara asks with a smirk.

Friends already.

How the hell does Len _do that_? Must be the pretty face, 'cause if Mick introduced himself to a chick by staring at her ass, the only thing he'd get is slapped.

Len smirks and shakes his head. 

One bar fight later, Mick is laughing, Len is grinning, and Sara's decided she'll keep them both. 

One big fight after that, everyone's depressed they're not really heroes after all. Well, not Mick and Len. They never thought they'd be anything but footnotes in the history books anyway. Mick says as much to Len.

Len taps his gun.

"Good point," Mick concedes. "Flash villain gallery's a perfectly legit way to go down in history."

Sara and Ray bicker a bit, Sara saying something about changing their fate. Mick and Len just watch.

"What about you two?" Sara asks, turning to look at them.

Mick glances at Len, who inclines his head. "We're in," he says. "For now. I like killing people."

"Good to know," Ray says, nose wrinkling in distaste.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" Sara says teasingly to Len. "Nothing to add?"

Len's actions speak so loud, people almost never realize that he's not talking - which leads to this situation more often than not. 

"I do the talking," Mick tells her. "Len here doesn't."

"What, not at all?" Ray says dubiously. 

"Given that he's got a crushed voice box, no, not at all," Mick says patiently. "Doesn't make him any less effective."

Both of their eyebrows shoot up.

Cue the awkwardness that always comes when people find out that someone has a physical disability.

"Do you, uh, sign or something?" Ray asks.

Len rolls his eyes.

"Like I said," Mick says. "I do the talking."

Len does, in fact, sign; in several languages and prison slangs, no less. But he learned it before the fire, in order to communicate complicated stuff to Mick on the job, and he hasn't been inclined to use it all that much more since. Besides, there's always pen and paper, which Len carries in those stupid parka pockets, and there's always Mick.

Mick doesn't care what these guys think. They're just their newest crew, and if they're dumb enough to think Len's slowed down in the slightest because of it, they're wrong.

It's him and Len, against the world.


End file.
